


A Masque For Dreaming

by Myaru



Category: Fire Emblem: Sword of Seals
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-07
Updated: 2011-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 17:57:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myaru/pseuds/Myaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Mildain's sight is fading, inspiration has not yet deserted him. While Etruria toasts his return to the throne, he and Cecilia contemplate revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Masque For Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the “vision” challenge at FE Contest on LJ. The word limit was 500-2500 words, and I squeaked in right under the line. Inspired by Milton, Mark of the Asphodel, and Shimizu Hitomi.

Mildain slashed his pen across his third paragraph and moved his hand to the bottom of the page.  His third attempt at concluding his introduction was not charmed, no matter what worn-out clichés and well-meaning attendants wanted him to believe about the matter; he'd crumbled two pages and burned their remains, wasting good parchment, lamp oil - patience.  The fire snapped across the room behind him, lending his hands a yellow tinge.  Light streamed in through the window, but it was too far to do any good; two glass lamps lit his work so his hands wouldn't cast shadows and obscure his work, now his eyes refused to work as hard as they used to.  His last sentence glared black and bold: _If we are ruled by reason, that gift granted us by the heavens and governed by god, it is reason we should bow to with no man slave to another_ \--

Too long.  Slightly awkward.  And why invoke heaven at all when decrying its established order? 

Such problematic ideas had seeped into his work - self-government, freedom.  The crown, a symbol of tyranny, himself the tyrant - a joke, always a joke before the war, when the most trying events of Mildain's life revolved around a horse with a broken leg and a walk through pouring rain.  He was slave to no one; he once imagined everyone else took satisfaction in their roles that he did.  A peasant grubbed dirt because he liked it; migrant workers moved because they wished to.  The prince, the golden prince, was once blind to the danger awaiting him because he wanted to be.

Mildain watched the ink glisten until it dried, his pen hovering over the clear space at the bottom, imagining the line he walked was as thin as the inky slash with its splatter at the end-- a messy finish.

Rather than continuing with his justifications, Mildain wrote himself straight to the point: _The Western Isles have been ceded to their native land owners.  The time has come for Etruria to abandon her imperial policies and reform herself_.

There now.  That would be popular.  He could imagine the wide eyes and horrified expressions that line would inspire if he didn't come up with a way to soften the blow.  Cecilia wouldn't see anything funny about it - even his companions from the Isles might not appreciate his indelicacy - but that was a worry for later.

 

…

 

‘Later,’ as it turned out, came too soon. 

Mildain looked at the parchment - now marked page ten - and it was a different line tripping him up while the flaws were harder to discern.  His answers to Etruria's questions, the ones they didn't know they had yet, appeared obvious and clumsy.  He wondered if anyone believed the myth he represented to begin with - if he wasted his breath alongside the ink.

The sun set, and he tried to turn the lamps up twice before be realized he hadn't forgotten-- that their dim yellow glow didn't signify dying flames.  He rested the pen beside the page by feel and capped the inkwell. 

In the first of her books, Elimine wrote of a lineage of seers Mildain always thought were interesting; through craft, cleverness, and the right invocations at the right times, they convinced their followers they saw gods when they closed their eyes.  When he was seven, he told his father _I want to be like that_ , a ruler of hearts and the voice that determined their thoughts.  Once he'd thought he succeeded. 

Mildain left the speech unfinished on his desk, cut off mid-sentence, and felt his way to the bedroom.  Five steps to the chest at the foot of his bed; his leather harp case rested on top, and the handle rattled when he picked it up to sit down.  The clasps squeaked when he flipped them open.  The strings breathed, vibrating when he pulled the instrument out and knocked it against the lid.  Etruria didn't know how broken their idol was.  He tried not to think about it; he had thoughts to shape and a myth to live up to, and a bit of darkness never stopped the charlatans of old.

Tomorrow.  He plucked three chromatic notes, graceless and metallic, and then a minor chord.  His hair caught on the tuning pins. 

This would be gone tomorrow, and they would be none the wiser.

 

…

 

In the dark Mildain lost track of time, even when Percival announced this meeting or that, or when Cecilia interrupted his attempt to compose out loud to remind him he must attend court.  He called her to guide him almost everywhere and asked her to remain close to provide cues, perhaps touch his arm to warm him of someone's approach, or murmur that there were stairs ahead, three of them, two steps across.  She came to him at odd hours of the night when he asked, sometimes staying until dawn or later, when the words finally dried up.  Douglas commented on the shadows beneath her eyes; others must have speculated on their meaning, but never within Mildain's hearing, and in any case they might say it was only natural he be drawn to her.  She was female.

He apologized for ruining her reputation, and Cecilia shushed him and told him to get on with his recitation. 

Nevertheless, it was true: Percival wouldn't inspire comments of that nature.  If her peers were not already whispering, her role in his masque would inspire giggles.  Mildain tucked a tangle of curls behind his ear.  "I suppose a bit of tarnish will emphasize your saintly virtues."

When he touched her mouth to ascertain her reaction, she sighed, her mouth becoming a thin line.  He tried not to show teeth when he grinned.

 

…

 

 _I think_ \-- behind him, to his right, where the fireplace was a dim glow when he turned around to see Cecilia's shadow bent over something on her lap.  "Now that we've written it down, your declaration sounds a bit, ah--" He could imagine her marking her bottom lip with her teeth, leaving faint indentations in the dry pink skin.  "--graceless."

Mildain laughed; she must be giving him that look - that flattening of her mouth that made her appear humorless, when really she was only tired of putting up with his lack of manners.  "If we leave the party with just the masque, everything we're trying to do with the Isles will be reduced to fiction."

"I think they've heard enough of your anti-imperialist muttering to understand the thematic underpinnings of your work, Mildain."

"Yes, but Cecilia-- recall we Etrurians are skilled in the art of denial."  Mildain couldn't tell if she choked back amusement or exasperation.  He turned around and paced back toward the window, but wandered onto the carpet instead of continuing to the other corner, counting steps to the table with their tea service - five, and he stubbed his toe on the curled foot of the table leg, thinking it was six.  She pretended not to notice.  "This'll be a grand experiment.  Pent and your father were giggling over the possibilities like little boys."

Ah, now Cecilia did laugh - but softly.  It was just a breath.  She must not want him to hear.  "Speaking of which, Clarine--"

"No."

A pause; perhaps a frown.  "Don't be unreasonable, your majesty.  She's a better fit for the part."

Mildain felt his way around the table, his fingers tracing and bouncing over the carvings on the lip.  "I want you up there with me - you, Klein, and Percival."  Mildain had the distance between the table and the sofa right; he circled around the back to stand behind her.  Floral perfume tinted the air with a reminder of pale, delicate night blooms.  "You'll make a lovely saint, Cecilia."  Her skin felt hot to the touch when he combed her hair back and hooked it over her ears.  Fine, dark, silky, it tried to slide from between his fingers. 

Her paper bent and shuffled between her hands, almost invisible.  On the table at her elbow, a silver teacup gleamed like a star, and the fire in the hearth was like the sun, an indistinct yellow shape far away, doing nothing to warm his cold toes or soothe the tension knotted between his shoulder-blades.  Cecilia went still, her head bowed.

"I'm never unreasonable," he said.

Cecilia's head turned slightly.  "Percival is the only one who will agree to that."

Mildain twirled her hair around his fingers.  It was so obedient, fanning and falling into place, always neat.  He remembered what it looked like when blown by the wind against the backdrop of the broken walls of Misul, and Cecilia herself wounded, her uniform bloodied and torn.  He would feel that scar through her clothes if he allowed his hands to venture that far, but he did not.  Instead he touched her cheek, felt the quick patter of her pulse beneath her jaw.  "Tomorrow," he said, looking at the ring of light cast on her dark hair by the fire, the only detail he could still see.  "If this goes away by tomorrow..."

How many days had he said this, now?  Eight.

Eight days.

 

…

 

"You said you wouldn't look back," Cecilia said. 

The speech was finished – marked, edited, rewritten.  A round table separated Mildain from his general, tucked in the corner of his favorite drawing room where it bathed in heat from a fireplace big enough to hold two men.  He remembered what it looked like: the bold carvings, a lion's head at the center; flowering sage painted on the walls, heavy brocade curtains, two layers of rugs.  His hands and feet remained cold.  "I lied."

Her spoon clinked against a porcelain bowl.  Mildain breathed in slowly: cinnamon, butter, cracked pepper.  He could imagine the creamy orange swirl of his soup, could almost taste the sweet starch of yams on the steam.  The Isles, he discovered two years ago, had roots and herbs in abundance, some he'd never heard of - burdock, purple yams and their paler counterparts.  Cinnamon grew on the southernmost island, where it was harvested, dried, cut, and sold for an insultingly low price.  No more.

"Are you committed to change?"  Cecilia put her spoon down, and he jumped when she touched him, arching her fingers over the back of his hand.  "Or aren't you?"

"Of course I am."  He grabbed her wrist when she tried to withdraw.  His ears weren't up to tracking her every movement.  "That isn't the problem at all."

Perhaps she raised her eyebrows.  "Performance anxiety?"

Mildain scowled, and it was Cecilia who laughed at him, for once.

 

…

 

Mildain tried to look only forward, at a future in which Etruria broke the rotten chains of its traditions and remade itself.  Perhaps he was as much a tyrant for cutting the Western Isles loose as he was before the war, when he argued for the continuation of their so-called _civilization_ ; it was one thing to say _men cannot be ruled by other men, unless by choice_ , and quite another to imagine a world in which he had no place.  Without Etruria's more advanced culture as their base, a world like that was ages away, eons.  If he had children, they would not see it-- or it would be their messy end signifying the beginning of a new age, not his.

When the night of the masque came, he examined Cecilia's elaborately coiffed hair with his fingers and tugged the ringlets over her ears.  He'd seen sketches and mock-ups of her costume; his imagination had to furnish the details.  "The production starts as soon as you pass beneath the arch.  Are you ready?"

Cecilia sighed, and her bell earrings jingled clear, silver tones.  "As ready as I can be.  Douglas will be waiting outside the door to escort you to the throne."  She pulled his hand away and folded it between her own.  Her silk gloves were warm, moist at the palms.  "It isn't too late to switch roles, your majesty.  I know you changed the direction, but--"

"You're offering to take the part of the evil, degenerate demi-god seeking-- _my_ saintly virtue?"  Mildain laughed, flicked one of her earrings, and pulled her toward the door, knowing she would feel obligated to push ahead and open it.  "No, I rather like that role, thank you.  Besides, our peers have already declared you blessed, inspired, and all that rubbish."

"Your majesty--" Cecilia's gossamer silk sleeve fluttered against his hand and caught on the decorative braiding of his coat.  He heard the door open, felt cool air from the corridor brush his cheeks.  She turned to him - he felt her breath on his throat - and he supposed she would be frowning.  "Please don't take the lead like that.  It's dangerous as long as you suffer from this condition." 

Mildain made a guess, and lifted his free hand to touch her cheek-- it would be just above his shoulder, pink with rouge, or just an irritated flush.  The corners of his lips twitched up.  "I apologize.  But I wish you'd stop complaining.  It's just a title - a role."

"One I am not suited for."

"Men contrive saints, Cecilia."  And kings-- especially kings.  "Elimine was only a sister with an especially powerful spellbook - have you forgotten?"

"How can I?"  She took his hand and pressed it firmly to her elbow, where her gloves ended in a lacy ruffle.  "We should be going, your majesty.  Percival and Klein are waiting for us."  Cecilia guided him through the door, and he heard the guard follow them with clinking chainmail.  His oily scent drowned the delicate floral of her perfume.  "You may have won this round, but next time I will have a more suitable role.  Understood?"

Mildain linked their arms and pet her hand, holding it to his wrist.  "But there _will_ be a next time?  I knew you'd come around to my way of thinking, Lady Saint."

He did like her short, irritated flounce of a sigh.  It always made him smile.

 

...


End file.
